


downsized

by amuk



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pining, Romance, Shrinking, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: Jack was used to strange situations, it came with the territory of working for Hydra. Brock shrinking to the size of a finger? Manageable. Keeping him busy until it wore off? Impossible.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 38
Kudos: 32
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. hydra, I shrank the captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quillingyousoftly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/gifts).



> Prompt: Brock gets shrunk to a finger size due to Hank Pym and Jack has to keep him entertained.
> 
> Written for HHdiscord, for Marvel Trumps Hate! I was originally planning a 3-5k fic (5 because it took so long!) but this mutated to a 7+k fic instead. I find this hilarious since the first thing I had to ask when writing this was “who’s Jack Rollins?”
> 
> Hopefully you like this! (and forgive any issues with characterization)

There were many reasons to work for Hydra—a chance at status, the money, the ability to alter the world, _the money_. No, seriously, if you got high enough in the ranks, the payout was unimaginable. Unfortunately, not one of those reasons was their medical plan, substandard as it was. It was a pity, considering how often Brock’s men got injured when facing a superhero.

Then again, maybe that was why they didn’t offer one. The overhead costs would be astronomical.

Still, there had to be a better solution than sitting in his subordinate’s kitchen in the middle of the night, the light flickering above him because Jack didn’t remember to screw it on tight enough. Brock couldn’t say how many times he’d visited Jack’s rundown shack of a home, only that somehow it looked worse at every visit. While they weren’t getting paid the big bucks, they were certainly getting paid enough to afford better digs. For some reason, Jack liked living here; he had a rare strain of loyalty, the stupid kind that would get him killed.

Brock just hoped that wouldn’t happen soon, it would be hard to find a competent replacement. Even more so now that the fucking Avengers were tossing everyone they could find into the slammer. A sharp sting interrupted his thoughts and he grimaced. “Watch it,” he growled, snapping his head to his right.

Next to him, holding a cotton swab dipped in alcohol, Jack raised a brow. “It’s not like it can sting less. It’s an open wound, what do you expect?”

It was the truth. Brock glared at him anyways. “I can still hurt you.”

Jack looked utterly unimpressed. Firmly, he pressed the cotton swab down once more, cleaning the wound. “If you can still threaten me, I guess you’re fine.”

“Like there was any doubt,” he muttered, glancing down at his raised arm. There were three long slashes on his arm of varying depths, all reminders of what it means to go against S.H.I.E.L.D. Begrudgingly, he had to admit their field operatives weren’t bad. At least they gave him a bit of a challenge; it would be boring otherwise and he didn’t sign up for Hydra to fall asleep.

Jack glanced at him, then back at the wound. Firmly gripping Brock’s arm, he started dabbing again. “No, you’re too good for them.”

“Damn straight,” he bit out, resisting the urge to flinch as the swab brushed a more tender region. It was easier to deal with when he was the one patching himself, but Jack had insisted. Distracting himself, Brock scanned the kitchen, his eyes jumping from the clean plates in the dishrack to the sparse but organized counters. There was something ridiculously domestic about Jack despite his hulking frame. No doubt there was a frilly apron hidden somewhere here, and Brock chuckled darkly at the thought.

Jack raised a brow at the sight but said nothing as he started to wrap a long, cloth bandage around his arm. He pulled tight with each round, almost enough to cut off circulation but not quite. “Maybe…”

When he trailed off, saying nothing, Brock turned back to him. “What?”

“Just…” Jack bowed his head, his shoulders hunched as he focused on bandaging. Hesitantly, he suggested, “Tomorrow’s mission, getting the Pym particles—maybe we should delay it.”

It was the most asinine thing Brock had ever heard. He snorted, not sure if he should be insulted or just amused. “As if. Think Hydra would stop for something like this?”

“Then what if you—”

Now he was insulted. “Think _I_ would stop for something like this?” Brock snarled, yanking his arm out of Jack’s grip. The still untied bandage started to unravel, loosening around his forearm.

“Hey!” Jack protested, trying to snatch back the bandage.

“Do you?” Brock repeated, keeping his arm away. With his good hand, he grabbed Jack by the collar and pulled him down till they were at eye level.

Jack was good at many things, but eye contact was not one of them. He looked away. “No.”

“This is nothing.” Not quite satisfied, he let go and held up his forearm once more. “Don’t be such a fucking mother hen.”

“I’m not,” Jack shot back, tugging on the bandage harder than necessary.

Brock wanted to laugh. For someone with Hydra, he was a poor liar. No longer insulted, he eyed his subordinate, amused. Part of him wanted to needle Jack more, to push his buttons; he’s seen Jack scared, worried, hurt, but never angry.

At the very least, the sex would be amazing.

Maybe he could try after the mission.

-x-

“This it?” Standing in front of a tall, dilapidated building, Brock frowned. The place looked like an apartment on the verge of being torn down rather than a secret hiding place of a superhero. Sure, Hank Pym was an ex-hero at this point, but that sort of stench never really washed off. The government always paid them off one way or another.

“Yeah.” Jack shifted from one foot to the other, antsy. Dressed entirely in black, he blended in with the shadows save for his green night-goggles. The street was darker than it ought to be at midnight, the streetlights here dead so Brock didn’t have to break them. “Thought it’d be nicer.”

“Guess it doesn’t pay to retire no matter what side you’re on.” Brock shook his head, feeling mildly disappointed.

“Retire?” Jack gave him a look, before looking at the rest of their squad spread out around them. Half a dozen men dressed in black, tensely studying the building in front of them, ready for a fight. “That’s not even an option, is it?”

Brock didn’t bother to answer. Jack was right—Brock couldn’t even name some of the newer guys, they’ve cycled through so many. He had no illusions about his place in Hydra—they’d use him until they couldn’t, and then they’d dispose of him the first chance they got. Unless he rose to the top or saved a good nest egg, he wasn’t going to make it past 40. 50, if he were lucky.

Not that Brock needed luck. He made his own and in a place like Hydra, he thrived.

Jack checked his watch. “It’s almost time to start.”

“Have two guys come down from the top.” Brock pulled on his mask as he shifted to a commanding tone. His shoulder ached from the movement but he bit back a wince; he was here to do a job. If Jack noticed, he didn’t say anything. He liked that about him, it was hard to find a professional sometimes. “We’ll go in through the front and pin him in.”

“What if he shrinks?” Jack asked, pulling down his goggles and readying his gun.

“Doesn’t matter. We’re not here for him, but for the particles.” Brock gestured to two members of his squad. They nodded and quietly slinked toward the front door. One of them stood to the side, gun cocked, while the other forced the door open.

Nothing happened. Brock jogged forward, his gun drawn and goggles on. Scanning his surroundings, he commanded, “Catch him if you can. But I don’t mind if he’s bloody or dead.”

The inside of the building was surprisingly clean and empty. Someone lived here, even if it wasn’t Pym. For a lobby, the area was sparsely decorated, a wide square room with a single chair on side and a board full of keys on the other. Not bothering to grab them, Brock headed to the apartment rooms. “Everyone take a floor,” he barked, already making his way to first floor rooms.

He kicked in the first door he found and rolled in. Just like the lobby, the apartment room was empty, the walls all newly painted white. Signs of people without the people. His goggles indicated no signs of Pym, small or otherwise.

As he exited back to the hallways, he bumped into Jack coming out from the opposite room. “Not here, unless he’s small,” Jack griped, glaring at the carpet as though Pym was hiding in its fibers.

Maybe Pym was. As good as his equipment was, it wasn’t that good. Brock stepped more forcefully. “If he is, his fucking equipment has to be around. If I’m chasing him a second time, he’s dead.”

It was easy to keep up the energy as he burst into the next apartment. And then the one after that. The entire first floor was cakewalk.

By the fifth floor, however, it was just getting tedious. Even with the fact that his team had split up, dividing and conquering the fifty-storey building, it still took time to investigate each room. The results were the same each time—no Pym, no particles, no equipment. Occasionally, the empty rooms had furniture, indications of their previous tenants, but Brock wasn’t sure if it was just a red herring or if there was some meaning in it. He wasn’t a detective, he’d leave that work for the cleanup team after.

“The teams above are almost done,” Jack relayed to him, standing stock still as he listened to his earpiece.

Brock shot open a door half-heartedly, tired of it all. “Fucking finally. Can’t wait to leave.”

“After we finish this hall, we’re done.” Jack checked the room across the hall with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop.

“He wasn’t here at all,” Brock grumbled, checking the last room in the hall. “Who thought he was?”

Jack shrugged, already leading the way to the stairwell. “Dunno, one of the intelligence units.”

“When we get back, I’m having their head.” As Brock descended down the stairs, he ground his teeth. Their steps echoed through the stairwell. “Waste of a night.”

“Yeah. Everyone’s out now.” Jack opened the door to the first floor lobby and headed toward the front doors.

“Your house,” Brock stated shortly, still pissed.

Jack smiled. “I thought you didn’t like my house.”

“I’m not breaking my bed.” Brock snorted. There was only one kind of distraction he needed after this, and it was going to be rough.

“I don’t know why I bother to repair it,” Jack muttered, opening the glass door. He lingered at the entrance, looking back at him. “Coming?”

“One sec.” Brock scanned the lobby one last time. Just like when he’d arrived, there was nothing here that caught his eye, no sign of the man or the particles they were after. The door closed in front of him and he sighed before following after Jack. “What an utter was—”

As he exited the building, his body started to tingle. Brock stared at his hands as a fuzzy, glowing light enveloped him and the building. He felt disconnected from his body, like he was half-asleep and listening to Jack go to the bathroom.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the glowing lights were gone but he still felt fuzzy. Maybe his arm had been poisoned yesterday. Maybe it was blood loss.

“Brock?” Jack yelled, his voice sounding way too loud. His shadow fell on Brock, looking like it could eclipse the sun.

“What?” As usual, Brock looked up at his subordinate. And then he craned his neck back and looked up even more.

Fuck, Jack was always a tall man, but he was a fucking giant now.


	2. Polly Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack never expected to find himself in the middle of a children’s toy aisle, looking at Barbie Dolls. When Hydra promised new experiences, this was not what he was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try alternating between Brock’s and Jack’s PoVs a bit. I’m not sure if I made him too soft, but my research has given him the image of a soft house husband. XD

In the years they’ve known each other, Jack had gotten used to Brock’s temper tantrums (for lack of a better word). The man was a walking volcano, just waiting to erupt, and every now and then he would explode in a fit of rage. Usually it was on a mission, sometimes it was during sparring (Jack had long gotten used to the bruises), and occasionally it was during something mundane like eating dinner (which led to bruises of a different nature).

Yet, for all of his experience, this was a strange outburst. In front of him, a miniature Brock paced across a desk, tiny firsts clenched tightly. Scattered around him were shredded magazines and distorted paper clips. When you were the size of a finger, there were very few things left to take your anger out on. That said, Brock had managed to leave an impressive trail of destruction. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he actually killed someone in this form.

Oddly enough, as deadly as the image was, Jack couldn’t help but find it cute.

Not that he could ever say it aloud, least he wanted to be the dead person. Despite whatever label he would put on their relationship, Brock was never one to let feelings get in the way. Jack didn’t have that level of detachment, it was beyond him.

“What is taking them so fucking long?” Brock growled, his usually deep voice coming out a high pitch.

Again, very cute. Jack had never thought he was one to like cute things, but, as usual, Brock was an exception to that. “It takes time to process things,” he pointed out.

Brock glared at him (adorable) before letting out a chain of expletives. The angrier he got, the worse the words, and by now Jack was starting to feel awkward listening to them. It was a small mercy that no one else was in the waiting room with them. When Hydra had shuffled them off to one of their post-mission check-ups, they had ensured privacy. Whether it was out of respect for Brock, out of fear for what he’d do, or just to keep word from getting out, Jack wasn’t sure but he was grateful nonetheless.

It had been a long check up, with two doctors putting Brock through every kind of test and machine possible. Or at least, tried to—most devices were configured for human-sized bodies, not dolls. Jack had waited patiently in the small, white waiting room, idly flipping through old magazines. After two hours, a tiny Brock had marched out of the doctor’s room, looking not a wit taller and a fuckton angrier.

“Maybe they got some Pym particles off you at least?” Jack suggested with a shrug. “Then the mission won’t be a write off.”

“That is not—”

The door opened, cutting off Brock’s high-pitched growl. A man with a white lab coat stepped out, looking incredibly ordinary for a doctor who looked after mercenaries. He skimmed the clipboard in his hand, flipping through pages, before looking down at Brock. And then even further down, because god, Brock was tiny. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay like that for a while.”

Brock’s expression grew dourer. “The fuck.”

“Fortunately, the change isn’t permanent—after a few weeks, it should wear off. However, we don’t have the capabilities to force a change. You will just have to wait,” the doctor continued, ignoring Brock’s reaction. “Come back for a checkup after that, I would like to see if there are any alterations to you after the fact.”

“Alterations?” Brock stomped forward, each step shaking the table. “I’ll show you—”

Jack groaned and leaned back into his seat.

-x-

“No.”

After three hours, Brock’s voice had gone from endearing to downright annoying. Jack glanced furtively to his left and right, scanning the toy aisle for any witnesses. Fortunately, it was midday Wednesday and the Toys R Us aisle was deserted. The only people to watch on to this argument were the hundreds of Barbie dolls lining the shelves, rows upon rows of blankly smiling dolls that sent a shiver up his spine.

He had never been good with dolls.

“You don’t have a choice,” Jack argued back softly, gesturing at the Kens stacked behind Brock. Despite standing on the shelf with them, no one could mistake Brock for them—he was slightly shorter and the scowl on his face was downright bloodthirsty. “There’s nothing else your size besides a Ken doll.”

“They are nowhere near my size,” Brock scoffed, patting one of the dolls at the crotch. He leered. “But you’d know that, right?”

There was nothing remotely arousing about that when he was that size and Jack bit back a frustrated sigh. “Look, just pick a few, okay? You don’t want to stay in that for weeks.”

“You need to do better than that to get in my pants.” Brock leered once more before turning to the Kens. Rolling his eyes, he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Hawaii Ken, with this pastel, floral shirt. “Do you seriously expect me to wear that?”

“It’d be a change of pace,” Jack snarked, grinning. He picked up Ballerina Barbie and dangled it in front of Brock. “Or you could always wear these.”

“Didn’t know you had that kink,” Brock shot back dryly. “I’ll make sure to buy you one later.”

Jack didn’t drop the Barbie, but only just. He nodded at the Hawaii Ken once more. “Only if you wear that.”

Brock kicked the doll with a surprisingly amount of strength for his size. Ken crashed on the ground, bending in a way dolls weren’t meant to bend. “Try again.”

And he was back to angry. Jack rocked back on his heels, scanning the dolls. Finding a Ken that looked like he belonged in the 90s, with his leather jacket and black jeans, he held it out. “What about this?’

“That’s a fucking boy band. Do I look like a boy band?” Brock grimaced, swatting the doll away. Yet another casualty. Jack wasn’t going to pay for them.

“They don’t really have an ‘army’ Ken,” Jack muttered under his breath, irritated. “Or—oh.” Sitting on the second highest shelf was a Ken with camouflage print. “They do have one. They really do have every profession covered.”

“Stripper?” Brock suggested, leering again.

“We’re trying to get you more clothes, not less.” Jack rolled his eyes, picking up a box featuring Barbie and a carriage. There were other ones, with motorcyles and horses and even a huge dollhouse. Brock would need a bed too, right? Somewhere safe he could rest without worrying if he got squashed. Tiny forks and plates so he could eat. “Maybe we can get one of those sets?”

When he didn’t get a response, his eyes flicked up to the shelf Brock sat on. Or rather, had been sitting on because he wasn’t there anymore. “Brock?”

Footsteps to his right alerted him to the reason his commander had disappeared. “Do you need help with anything, sir?” a kind but curious voice asked.

Jack bit back a groan. Helpful employees were worse than dogs and almost impossible to shake off. Clearing his throat, Jack turned to his right and tried to smile. The way the woman flinched told him he’d failed. “No, I’m good.”

Sporting a blue vest and jeans, the employee clasped her hands behind her back, her expression nervous. A bright yellow name tag identified her as Linda. “If you do need anything, let us know.” She paused looking at the doll in his hand and then smiled up at him. “Buying a gift for your daughter?”

Automatically, he shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” Linda guessed again, “Your son?”

“I don’t have—” Jack paused, realizing just how strange it was for a single grown man his size to be standing in the doll department. “Yes…it’s for my…niece,” he lied. He could almost hear Brock’s laugh; he was terrible at impromptu lies.

“Right.” She gave him a strange look, her smile strained. “Of course. I’ll be…leaving now.”

Without waiting for a response, Linda fled the aisle. The second she stepped outside the aisle, Brock laughed in earnest, jumping out of the shelf and onto Jack’s shoulder. “Your niece? Why are you so shitty at this?”

“Shut up,” Jack growled, irritated.

“Seriously, you can’t even come up with a—”

Having had enough, Jack flicked Brock away with his finger, listening to his tiny yell as he flew through the air. Unfortunately, unlike a bug he didn’t go splat. Picking himself up off the ground, Brock shouted, “JACK!”

No matter how strong his body was, he was still insanely slow, and Jack dropped several dolls and a dollhouse into his shopping cart before leaving.

And if he threw in the Hawaii Ken, it was not out of some need for revenge. No, he got that just by watching Brock struggle to catch up as he marched through the store.

-x-

Today was a day full of firsts, including Jack sitting in the middle of his living room trying to assemble a Barbie playhouse. When this was over, he was burning the whole thing. Scattered around him were garish, bright pink plastic pieces, all waiting for him to force them together in the shape of a house.

“I’m not living in there,” Brock stated flatly, picking up one of the tiny plates. At least it seemed the right size.

“You don’t have to, but you need furniture, right? A bed, a chair, a table?” Jack listed out, flipping through the instruction manual for directions. How was this harder than planning a mission? It made no sense.

“You’re spray painting them,” Brock ordered, dropping the plate. Good thing it was plastic.

“What, can’t handle pink?” Jack teased. He winced as Brock punched his thigh. “Fuck, how does that hurt more than normal?”

Brock shrugged. “Science.” Neither of them had been hired for their academics, after all. He patted the mattress of the bed doubtfully. “These aren’t made for sleeping.”

“Better than nothing.” He turned the directions vertically, his mouth twisting as he tried to figure out how to screw together two pieces. And after this he had to make dinner—what should he do about that? Get a normal amount and give Brock less? Did Brock have a normal-sized appetite or a tiny-sized? Would he need to cut rice into tiny pieces?

Suddenly, he didn’t want to finish making the dollhouse. It was the easiest thing on the list.

-x-

At the end of the day, Brock had somehow swung back from irritating to cute. Maybe it was dinner—a single spaghetti noddle chopped up into small pieces with a few drops of sauce. Maybe it was the tiny doll’s cup he drank from or the way he washed his face with a bottle cap full of water.

Or maybe it as the way he ignored, in typical Brock fashion, the bed that Jack had painstakingly made and opted to instead sleep on Jack’s pillow.

Jack tried not to smile as he gingerly laid his head down beside Brock.


	3. vacation blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock suddenly realized why he’d didn’t take vacations—it was fucking boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next little bit is a series of vignettes. 

It took all of three days for Brock to realize exactly why he never went on vacation. His vacation days often piled up on one another until Hydra tried to convince him to take some time off. Usually he worked around it by taking a day off here and there after a mission, but never had he taken these many days off in a row.

Brock was _bored_. It was bad enough when he was normal sized and could work out or something, but tiny as he was, there was nothing to do. Even if he wanted to read a book, it was impossible. The only thing left was watching tv and after three hours of that, it lost its appeal.

“Should just blow my brains and be done with it,” Brock growled as he stomped on the tv remote, changing the channel from one mindless reality show to the next.

“Watch a movie?” Jack suggested from the kitchen. There was the sound of water as he turned on a tap.

“I already watched two.” He stomped on the remote once more, changing the channel again. News this time. “There aren’t good movies.”

“You just have terrible taste.” Jack came into the living room with a glass of water.

“That explains why I’m here,” Brock retorted. _Click_ and now a raunchy girl winked flirtatiously at the screen.

Well. That was something at least, though all Brock had was his hand.

Jack disappeared back into the kitchen and then came out with a small shot glass filled with water. Bending down on the living room table, he set down the cup in front of Brock. “Here.”

“Only if that’s filled with Vodka,” Brock sniped, focusing on the screen. “I need a drink.”

“That’d kill you.”

“Are you my fucking mother?” Brock glared up at him. Honestly, this whole problem just brought out the worst of Jack’s tendencies, turning him from slightly protective to full blown overprotective. “It’s a good way to go.”

“You just have to make it through a few weeks, quit being so fucking dramatic,” Jack growled back. A rare angry Jack. And Brock wasn’t big enough to reap the benefits of it. “Just try lifting it, you can use it as a weight.”

A make-shift dumbbell.

A chance to finally do something. It had been three days too many since he’d last worked out. Jumping off the control, he jogged to the cup. It was just small enough for him to lift, any wider and he wouldn’t be able to wrap his arms around it. Gripping the slippery glass with his arms, Brock grunted as he tried to lift the small glass.

It wasn’t that it was hard, it was just how awkwardly big the shape was. The worst part was remembering how small the damned glass was, how small and light it used to be. Fumbling with his grip, he raised the glass. Water splashed over the lip of the cup, soaking him. He smirked arrogantly. “You call this a weight?”

Jack gave him a blank look. “If it’s a challenge you want…”

Without warning, he dropped several beans into the glass. Even more water slipped over the cup, Brock’s grip on the glass growing slipperier. The glass grew heavier with each drop and he hunched forward, trying to handle the weight of It all. “That…all you…got?” he grunted.

A resounding plop answered him as Jack dropped two more beans in. “Fuck,” he spat out, gritting his teeth as he strained to keep the glass up. It was too much. Within seconds, he dropped it on the ground with a heavy thud.

“I’ll put less next time,” Jack said, holding out a tissue. There was something smug about his expression, about his tone, and Brock didn’t like it.

“Time for a real work out,” he growled, leaping at him.

-x-

Jack never thought of himself as particularly clever, but he was starting to feel that way after constructing several Rube Goldberg machines, he was starting to feel that way. After watching a plethora of youtube videos, he had constructed the most intricate jungle gym ever, a combination of toothpicks, cotton swabs, yarn, an assortment of rocks, and various other household devices in an attempt to keep Brock entertained.

Or at least so busy he’d stop trying to chase after Pym. After three explanations of why they couldn’t go after Pym right now, the most important being _they didn’t have any new leads_ , Jack had given up and just devoted his time finding new ways to fill Brock’s time. If he didn’t, Brock would be pigeon feed.

Today, he was pulling out an old record player, something he’d dug out of an old garage sale years ago but never used. It was a mini-treadmill, complete with music. Hooking up a line of twine from the player to a towering table, Jack set a safety pin at the top so Brock could zipline down. What else could he do—a stick with two cups attached, filled with water and rocks for weightlifting. A long tray to swim through in the most hideous pair of Ken swimming trunks he could find. A crane that would only lift him if he added the right weights.

“What’re you grinning about?” Brock asked, stretching his arms over his head as he jogged into the living room.

“Nothing.” Jack glued together two toothpicks to create a ladder.

Maybe tomorrow he could buy some Christmas lights and make monkey bars.


	4. when the lights are on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was really telling that the first thing Jack thought when he saw the lights on was “strange”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three soft scenes. <3 I just really like the trope of 'coming home'

The lights were on. Jack stared at front door to his place, not sure why that detail had him so transfixed. The rest of his pockmarked door was the same as ever, a dirty shade of white with paint peeling in a few places. A diamond shaped window at the top glowed warmly as he approached, indicating that Brock hadn’t bothered to turn off the lights. It was a waste of electricity, but that wasn’t the reason he was staring.

Mystified, Jack studied at it a moment longer, a niggling in the back of his head telling him that something was off. It was such an ordinary sight. Unable to put a finger on it, he shrugged and unlocked the door. The lights were even brighter inside, immediately bathing him in their yellow glow. Closing the door behind him, he dropped his tools bag on the ground with a heavy thud.

“I’m fucking hungry, Jack,” Brock growled from somewhere in the kitchen. There was still nothing remotely threatening about a pipsqueak promising murder but neither of them would bring it up. For Brock, it was a matter of pride.

Jack didn’t mind playing along. “Mission took long because _someone_ wasn’t there,” he replied, rolling his shoulders as he straightened his posture. His back was sore. Maybe a long, hot shower would fix that.

“Or _someone’s_ an incompetent leader,” Brock grunted back, his voice breathless. He must be using the gym again. It was silly, but Jack felt proud. “Do you need some more training?”

“You didn’t exactly train me the first time.” Jack walked down the hallway to the living room, peeking inside. As he’d expected, Brock was climbing a chain of Christmas lights up to the record player, no doubt aiming to get a run before supper.

Brock paused, looking over his shoulder at him. Even though it was hard to see his expression, Jack knew instantly that it had to be a leer. “Mmm, that’s true.” Even his voice had taken on a lusty tone, no doubt remembering one of their illicit trysts in Hydra’s training grounds. “Maybe you need a refresher?”

“Maybe when you’re bigger.” Jack rolled his eyes. He’d considered it a few times, but there was no way to have sex with someone the size of a Ken doll, even if he did have all the parts.

“Your loss.” Brock shrugged, going back to his workout. It didn’t take him long to scale the rope and he hit the tabletop running as he headed toward the record player. Soon enough, the bright tones of some 80s Jazz music filled the room, the sound skipping every now and then as Brock leaped over the record arm. “This is shit music to work out to.”

“Would you rather have some 80s pop song stuck in your head?” At Brock’s glare, he chuckled. “Yeah, thought so.”

“Just get dinner.” Brock’s tone turned murderous. “You’re an hour later than you said you’d be.”

It was a funny image, of Brock sitting by a clock and impatiently tapping his foot to the second hand. Did he peek out the window every now and then, searching for Jack’s figure amongst the streetlights? People didn’t wait for Jack, not like this.

Something warm was stuck in the back of his throat and tentatively, Jack mumbled, “I’m back.”

At that, Brock stopped running, almost sliding off record as he raised a brow. “Yeah? You want a medal or something?”

“No, just…” _I like having the lights on_. But Brock would accuse him of being a sappy mess. To be honest, even Jack felt like getting overly sentimental about a stupid meaningless thing. “I’ll get dinner.”

-x-

There were so many downsides to being the size of a finger. Figuring what to eat, finding clothes that fit, living a life independently—Brock couldn’t understand for the life of him why Hank Pym or any other hero would choose this life. Then again, they were all masochists, the lot of them, and he shouldn’t be entirely surprised that some of them enjoy living like this. Hell, they probably get off living like this.

Brock, on the other hand, was more than done with it. Whatever little enjoyment he might have found in the first few days were gone by now. It’d been a week and a half since he’d been regulated to using his vacation days and he never wanted another vacation in his life. He wasn’t sure what he missed the most about being human-sized, but there was nothing he liked about his current size.

First aid kits were now added to that list of things he missed. Brock sat on jar of ointment, watching as Jack tried to cut gauze into tiny strips. “My shoulder’s fine,” he said for the third time. “I don’t need your babying.”

“It’s still injured and if you get infected like that, I don’t think we can heal you.” Jack looked at him, his brow furrowed. As usual, this man worried far too much. “No medicine’s small enough for you, our machines aren’t really your size, and I don’t want it to get to amputation state.”

Brock guffawed, amused by the image of a butter knife cutting his arm off. “Well, that would be easy at least.”

“Brock,” Jack warned as he returned to cutting the gauze. His sniping was imprecise, leaving behind strange bumps instead of a series of straight lines.

“I’m not interested in losing an arm.” Rolling his eyes, Brock slipped off his shirt. His shoulder ached at the movement, but nothing more. Like he thought, it was healing. Another week and there’d be no need for bandages. When Jack leaned closer to help unravel the bandages, Brock swatted his finger away. “I’ll do it myself.”

“It’s probably easier that way,” Jack agreed, but he continued to hover.

It was suffocating yet Brock couldn’t entirely resent it. Ignoring Jack, he slowly unwound the old bandages, revealing freshly scared skin. It was pink, slightly puckered, but nothing unusual about it. “See? Fine?”

“Yeah.” Jack peered at the injury until he was satisfied. He held out a tiny piece of gauze. “There’s no sign of an infection.”

“I think I’d notice if there was one.” Brock snatched the gauze. It felt oddly heavy in his hands, his mind still thinking of them as feather light. The problem was that he weighed only slightly more than a feather now. Jack set a small lid beside him, filled with ointment, and Brock dipped his finger into it before smearing it on his skin. It was cold. He wanted to hiss, to shiver, but resisted the urge. Knowing Jack, he’d make a big fuss about it and there was only so much coddling Brock could take.

It had been a while since he’d last bandaged himself. A few years, at least. At some point, Jack had insisted on doing it himself. Initially, Brock had thought it a ploy to get in his pants, something he hadn’t minded in the least, but that had never been Jack’s motivations. In the least sexual way, he would press his hands against Brock’s skin, carefully cleaning and wrapping up his injuries before separating. If anything, Brock had to be the aggressor after those session, Jack merely content to tend.

Unfortunately, there would be none of that today. Brock frowned, tucking in the end of the bandage as he finished. There was only his hand now and that wasn’t as satisfying.

“Is something wrong?” Jack asked, noticing his frown.

“When this is over, we’re spending two days in bed,” Brock bit out.

Jack flushed lightly and well, it wasn’t a great reward, but it was something.

-x-

“I’m back,” Jack called out, closing his door behind him. How long did they say it took to make a routine? A month? They’d been at this for almost two weeks—he hoped that Brock regained his size before that point. He didn’t want to get used to it only to lose it.

There was no response and Jack furrowed his brow. Odd. Usually by now, Brock would have sworn at him twice. Maybe double that, considering how late he was. Striding toward the living room, Jack peeked inside. He scanned the various ropes and pully systems he’d set up, the weights and balance beams, but there was no little man running the paces through them. No Brock running along the record player, making the music play out of time as he picked up speed.

Maybe he was hungry. Padding to the kitchen, Jack called out again, “Brock? You hungry?”

The kitchen lights were on, but there was still no response, just as there was no Brock sitting on the counter. Fear started to knot in his stomach and his training kicked in. He’d have to search methodically, inspecting each area. At least nothing looked out of place—his biggest fear was something would fall on Brock. Even a heavy book could be deadly at his size.

“Brock? You practicing your stealth?” Jack asked, turning over sofa cushions and checking under tables. If he stopped and thought about, really thought about, he would just be a mass of fear. There were so many ways Brock could get hurt, that Brock could disappear. Maybe he had started to shrink again, shrink right out of existence. Maybe he’d gone outside and a cat or bird ate him.

Fear would make his hands shake, make him miss the smallest of details. Fear would make a mountain out of a molehill. So Jack let his instincts take over, the hours of training drilled into him. Automatically, he moved from section to section, overturning chairs and pulling open drawers. Inspecting the cracks between furniture, the tinniest gaps that could fit a finger.

An hour later, his house was a mess, but Jack sighed in relief as he took the lid off a jar. Inside, curled up on top of a pile of cookies, Brock slumbered. Tiny crumbs covered his face and hands, a half-eaten cookie beside him.

Quickly, before Brock could wake up, Jack pulled out his phone and took a picture. There was no telling just how much blackmail he could get away with from this.


	5. alone together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack never realized how lonely you could be with someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end now! Just 1 more to go! =D

“Casualties…zero…” Brock mumbled as he stood on the pristine white paper, slowly shuffling to the right as he tried to read it. With his size issues, he’d expected Hydra to at least make smaller, easier to read mission reports. Then again, he’d also expected them to make him human-sized again by now, so maybe he should just stop fucking expecting things from them. If he wanted consideration, he’d have stayed in S.H.I.E.L.D.

Still, this proportion difference was making it impossible to keep tabs of what his team was up to. Each word had to be read slowly and pieced back together to make a sentence. It was slow, time consuming, and Brock had never been one for patience. Maybe he should have just taken Jack’s offer to read it aloud.

Then again, Jack was handling almost everything else now and Brock didn’t want to be in even further debt with him. It rankled him already, just how much he owed this one man. For most of his life, he’d repaid favours immediately, but this was one he couldn’t do so easily.

“One…injury…” Brock frowned. Was training lax now? Did his men relax without him at the helm? When he got back, the first thing they were doing was training. Intense training. Go-to-the-mountain-and-survive training. If they thought they were getting a vacation because he wasn’t there, they had another thing coming.

Rubbing his brow, he finished reading the sentence. It was a good thing he was left alone all day; it would take him that long to finish reading the report. Jack’s reports had always been more detailed than his own—Brock preferred to get to the point, almost bullet-pointing the results. There was no need to dress up the facts.

“Infiltrated…properly…”   
  


“Almost…noticed…distraction…”

“Dodged…attack…”

It was strange. Within an hour, Brock knew all the sordid details of Jack’s latest mission—who needed stealth practice, who did a good job at breaking in, what was taken and how. There had always been the odd mission he’d read like this, sitting on his couch and drinking a beer as he caught up with his squad’s exploits. Any good leader knew when to lead and when to step back, and it wasn’t like he could be everywhere at once.

However, this was the fifth mission without him, the third one that had taken longer than a day. Usually he’d have his own mission to handle. Post-mission, he and Jack would swap stories, showing off new scars as they took off their clothes. There was something electric about letting Jack touch a freshly formed scab, about touching Jack’s barely healed wounds. Death had always been close, but in those moments, it had almost felt like he could taste it. He’d drink in Jack’s skin, feel his heart thrumming beneath his hand, and the border between life and death became none existent for a few minutes. 

Now, though, all he had were these reports, black ink telling him tales he didn’t witness. His well-trained team managed fine without him. Jack managed fine without him. Part of him felt like a little kid again, watching the world instead of participating in it. His new height and the dew-sized beer he had didn’t dissuade that image.

It was silly. The second he was big, he’d be running things again. He wasn’t losing everything he’d worked for, not really.

All of those things were waiting for him.

And if he pretended to sleep when Jack came back, it was just because he was tired, and nothing more.

-x-

At the sound of water splashing, Jack looked up from his laptop. It took him a moment to focus on the teacup on his kitchen counter. As he did, water once again spilled over the lip and he frowned. “Why are you making a mess?”

“Do you know how hard it is to get comfortable in a teacup?” Brock snapped back, shifting his position in the cup. By now, half of the hot water had splashed out. “Add some more water, it’s fucking cold.”

“Because of you.” Jack pinched his nose, rubbing it lightly. He didn’t wear his glasses often, only when he had to use the laptop for long periods of time, and the weight on his face felt strange and awkward. “Should I find a bigger bowl?”

“I don’t want to swim, I want to bathe.” Brock rolled his eyes disdainfully. Irritation coloured his voice as he remembered their previous attempts at this. “And I’m definitely not drowning because you’re not around to pull me out. That would be the worst fucking way to die.”

“That was one time.” Wincing at the accusation, Jack got up.

“One time too many,” he snorted.

Well, that was fair. Turning on the tap, Jack filled another glass with hot water, a finger under the spout to make sure the temperature wasn’t too hot. Last thing he needed was a hardboiled Brock. His skin was already starting to look a little red; he had never done well in the heat. Jack glanced at his housemate. A little man bathing in a teacup. It felt like something out of Alice in Wonderland, but after dealing with this for so long, the image had lost its surrealness.

If anything, it was rather cute. He’d have to sneak a shot later when Brock wasn’t paying attention.

“Here you go.” Jack gently tipped the water into the Brock’s teacup, watching as the water rose until it was at his shoulders. Raising the cup, he asked, “That to your taste?”

“Good enough.” Brock cracked his back as he stretched once more, water lipping the top of the cup but not going over fortunately. While it wasn’t really all that much water, Jack was getting tired of getting up and refilling the cup. Looking up at him, Brock smirked. “Like what you see? Too bad you can’t join me this time.”

Like Brock wasn’t the one sneaking into showers before. Jack flushed lightly as he returned to his chair, not able to think of a comeback. Or at least, a comeback that wouldn’t hurt. After all, Brock had always been attractive to him, had been from the moment they’d met. There was something rough and rugged about him and well, Jack was hopeless to firecrackers.

His mother had always warned him against playing with matches.

Even now, thinking of the times they spent together was enough to get him hot and bothered. Yet…there was nothing arousing about Brock at this size, where only his sexy grins and sly words were attractive. Looking at Brock’s naked body now, he could only think cute.

Brock masturbated all the time, even when he’d been normal-sized. His sex drive had always been over the top, and Jack could only keep up for so long. Jack had never felt the need, not while they were together, but he’d never had the bed empty for this long. He had never been by himself for this long. There were the post-mission sex and the during-mission sex and the ‘look-I-found-a-corner-and-fuck-Hydra’ sex. The bathroom sex and the bathing sex and the ‘I’m-bored’ sex. Brock’s muscular back underneath his hand, skin firm and warm. His lazy smirk as he stripped seductively. His gasping moans as he came.

Jack’s pants tightened at the memory, and damn, he never thought he’d get a boner just from thinking about someone. Never thought he’d miss his not-quite one-night stands this much.

But it was more than that, really—more than the sex, even if that seemed to be all Brock ever wanted out of their relationship. They’d write mission reports together and bitch about their orders and S.H.I.E.L.D. On a mission, Brock would look at him, _just_ look at him, and Jack would know what he wanted before the words came out of his mouth.

They spent almost every day together now. Jack had never thought himself a romantic, but he felt lonelier than he had when they’d only sneak a few hours together.


	6. relationship status

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack wasn’t sure how much longer he could take this stagnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, now to my weakness! Confession, I don’t write much drama (part of not writing chaptered fics!), so I’m not sure how well this turned out. Constructive crit is welcome!

There were things that Jack had started to expect on his days off. The mornings were always quiet. Brock had always enjoyed sleeping in and that hadn’t changed now that he was tiny. Jack would silently slip off the bed and wander down to the kitchen, where he’d spend an hour sipping coffee as he tried to create a new contraption for Brock to struggle with. Considering that the small leader was confirmed to this house, he got bored really quickly. It was a fulltime job coming up with new things for him to do.

Sometime around noon, Brock would hop down the stairs, complaining about his empty stomach. He’d work out for two hours; Jack liked to listen to him grunt and swear as he tried out his new creation. It was a nice distraction while he worked on his reports. Dinner was a noisy affair too, with Brock snipping at whatever droll show happened to be on. Jack liked picking out the strangest of them, if only to hear him talk.

It had been this pattern for two weeks. Which is why, when Jack woke up to an empty bed, he knew something was up. For a second, he feared that he might have rolled over onto him in his sleep. A quick pat down revealed no squashed Brock. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here.

Quietly, he glanced around his darkened bedroom. “Brock?”

No response. Maybe he just woke up early. He was probably downstairs already, ready to bitch about how hungry he was. Jack rolled his shoulders as he got up and padded toward the door. It was odd. He had nothing to indicate it, but instinctively Jack knew that something more serious was waiting for him downstairs. A gut feeling, if he were honest, but Brock had used those more often than not to save his life. Steeling himself, Jack headed toward the kitchen.

The house was quiet. Somehow, despite Brock living here, that was usually the case. A clock ticked somewhere, the second hand slowly but constantly moving. His footsteps sounded deafening in the silence.

Entering the kitchen, the first thing he spied was Brock on the kitchen table. He sat on top of the saltshaker, his gaze distant as he stared outside the window. There was something pensive about his expression, something overly thoughtful, and Jack would never have applied either of those words to Brock before. He was a man of action first most. This was the exact opposite of that.

The second Jack stepped into the room, the picturesque scene shattered and Brock turned to him. His eyes were dark. The silence hung between them for a long moment before he stated slowly, “We’re looking for Pym.”

There was no room for excuses in his tone. Jack couldn’t say he hadn’t expected this. If anything, it was impressive that Brock was willing to wait as long as he had. “We don’t know where he is.”

“Then we’ll look for him,” Brock replied immediately, clearly not in the mood for an argument “Hydra has people in fucking S.H.I.E.L.D. This should be nothing.”

“He’s off-grid.” Jack felt too awkward to sit and settled for leaning against the doorway. Crossing his arms, he shrugged. “We have some clues, but…it’s not really enough.”

“It’s good enough.” Brock hopped off the shaker and walked to the edge of the table. “We’ll start there.”

Jack frowned. _We_. “You’re not coming.”

“Did I fucking ask?” Brock growled, stomping a foot on the table. Anger flashed across his eyes, impatience colouring his voice. “I’m coming.”

“But—”

Brock smiled dangerously. “Who’s the commander?”

There was no point in fighting him on this. Jack knew a losing battle when he saw one and he had enough bruises to know that no matter what size Brock was, he’d beat him in a fight. “Fine.” Biting his cheek, he added, “But…you have to stay in my pocket.”

Brock snorted. “What am I, your kid? I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not—” Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Jack shook his head. “You’re not Antman, you can’t control ants, you can’t switch back to normal size.”

“Do I need to be to beat your ass?” Brock growled, cracking his knuckles.

“Sure, you can fight, but what if we lose you? Or you get crushed? Or shrink even smaller?” Jack explained desperately.

“It’ll be fine,” Brock dismissed immediately.

“You don’t know that!” Jack ran a hand through his hair, irritated. “I should just leave you here.”

“You’re not the commander,” Brock reminded, looking ready to fight.

“No, but you’re acting irrational and that’s bad on the field,” Jack snapped back, angry. “I didn’t spend weeks taking care of you, making all of this,” he gestured around him at the makeshift gym, “Just so you’d die on your first day back on the field.”

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” Brock bit out.

“You didn’t have to! I did this because I—” _Love you_ Jack almost finished, and the realization hit him like a gut punch. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. This was exactly what he’d avoided since they’d started their arrangement. Brock wouldn’t understand. Brock wouldn’t care. Immediately, he backpedalled. “You’re not dying because you’re bullheaded.”

It was too late. For a callous man, Brock was unusually perceptive. His body stiffened immediately and Jack knew that he knew. After a few seconds, he sneered, “You coward.”

“You’re not any better!” Jack shouted back, his jaw tightening. “Don’t think your act fools anyone.”

For a moment, he stood there, breathing heavily as he stared into Brock’s eyes. For once, he refused to back down, to look away. Only when Brock blinked did he move. Stalking out of the kitchen, he slammed the door as he left the house.

-x-

Brock wasn’t sure exactly what he was angry at when he broke the vinyl, but there was something cathartic about watching the black record shatter to pieces. In fact, it was so good that he went about breaking other things. The ugly snowglobe he’d wanted to destroy for years. The bowls he used as a tub.

It was only when he reached Jack’s gym that he stopped. He stared at it, but he couldn’t break it. Instead, he sat down. Panting, he listened to the clock tick as he calmed his heartrate. The house was quiet. Even quieter than when Jack left for work.

This was fucking stupid. Why the fuck was Jack angry? Jack wasn’t the one being coddled, treated like a child because he was the size of a ken doll. Jack didn’t have to practically marathon when he wanted to go from one side of the house to another. Jack wasn’t the one reading reports of other missions, getting left further and further behind.

Rage coursed through his veins and Brock leapt to his feet. His hands fisted, wanting to punch something, to destroy something. Anything would do. There was the jungle gym. The barbie dollhouse. The bed he’d never used. Brock looked around him at all the likely targets. There was the seesaw and the dumbbell. The slide that never worked.

Actually, the more he looked, the more things there were to break. Almost every corner of this room was filled with something Jack had made for him. Just for him. It had taken hours. Brock had been there for all of them, watching impatiently as Jack slowly assembled the strangest contraptions. 

Brock had always wanted to carve a place that was solely his own. To make his mark and go down in history, whether it was for good or ill.

Somehow, without meaning to, Jack had made that place here.

Brock uncurled his fist. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. There was one place that he didn’t have to worry about falling behind, one place where he was needed. Lowering his eyes, he brushed his hand against one of the dumbbells.

Jack’s expression had been carefully blank earlier. Not hurt, not frustrated, but blank. For months, Brock had wanted to see Jack truly angry, had fantasized the rough sex from it, but it was one thing to imagine it and another to experience it. Jack wasn’t made for smiles but he sure wasn’t made for glares either.

No, he was a rough, awkward man who would be misunderstood his entire life.

And oddly enough, some part of Brock liked that.

-x-

The door slammed shut behind him and while the house didn’t shake, Jack wouldn’t be surprised if the windows rattled. He didn’t bother to check, instead furiously storming down the street. He didn’t have any destination, moving wherever his feet took him. The cool wind cut into his skin but his skin felt hot from anger.

This wasn’t the first time they’d fought. Wouldn’t be the last time either. While Jack was fine with accepting most of Brock’s shit, Brock always enjoyed a good tussle. Whether it led to make-up sex after or not, he liked fighting, liked arguing, and would sometimes bait Jack to get a rise out of him. Not that it ever worked.

This wasn’t one of those times. For once, Jack wanted to beat the living shit out of Brock, to take him and slam him on the ground, to watch the blood spray as his fist hit Brock’s cheek.

It was stupid to feel hurt over this. Their relationship had always been heavily one-sided. Brock had made it clear from the start, that this was just a purely physical thing and nothing more. And Jack, stupid, foolish Jack, should have known better than to expect more. He didn’t even know when he started making more of it than he should have—during these past few weeks? Or was it even before that, somewhere between the friendly training practices and the bullets and the post-battle patchups?

Jack didn’t know. Jack didn’t _want_ to know. It was easier to dismiss it if he pretend it was a recent thing, that he’d only gotten in trouble recently and hadn’t been falling this entire time. He was used to sinking, to drowning; almost all of his relationships had been like that. It was stupid to want more from Brock.

Ducking into a dark alley, Jack yelled as he punched a brick wall. Pain shot up his arm and he recoiled immediately. Leaning against the wall now, he cradled his hand. “Fuck, that was a bad idea.”

His knuckles bled, his hand shaking from pain. His sight grew blurry, tears filling his eyes, and no matter how much he gritted his teeth and blinked them away, they wouldn’t go. It was stupid to want more from Brock. But Jack did. He wanted the light on after being out all day, the simple reassurances of Brock’s voice greeting him home, his touch before falling asleep. There were no guarantees in life nor in their line of work, and he had no need for empty promises either. This relationship wouldn’t last, whether it was due to a bullet or due to time. What Jack wanted, what he _needed_ , was that what they had was real. That it wasn’t as simple and easy to leave as Brock liked to claim it was.

That when he died, Brock wouldn’t just shrug it off. This had to mean something.

He was used to Brock deflecting his care. It was an everyday occurrence by now. Whether he really meant it or just pretended to, Brock had walls that Jack could never climb over. But that sneer earlier, the bite of his words—that wasn’t just deflection, that was outright rejection.

Life was too short to be pining for something that would never happen.

It was hours before he reached home. Jack wasn’t sure how he even ended up at his door, only that he was standing in front of it now. His hand still ached, the cuts on his knuckles scabbed over. Slowly, he pushed open the door. Even though the lights were still on, half of him expected Brock to be gone already. If anyone could navigate the city at that size, it would be Brock.

What he didn’t expect was for Brock to be sitting on the record player, his legs swinging back and forth as he stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. Jack hovered at the edge of the entrance, not sure what to say. Or if he even wanted to say anything. It was only noon and he just hoped to crawl back into bed.

Brock made the decision for him. Still studying the ceiling, he uttered, “You’re back.”

There wasn’t any intonation in his voice, nothing to indicate his feelings. For once, Jack couldn’t read Brock. Carefully, he replied, “You’re still here.”

Patting the record player, Brock shrugged. “Broke this. I’ll pay you back later.”

That explained nothing. Jack stood there uncomfortably. He didn’t want to sit. Doing that would feel like giving in.

When he didn’t respond, Brock finally looked at him. Brow arched, he asked, “Jack? You deaf now?”

Maybe Brock felt uncomfortable too. Maybe he sensed the shift in their relationship. Adjusting his weight from one foot to the other, Jack bit his lip. This was it, decision time—did he want to press the issue or stick to the status quo. It would be easily to just shake his head and laugh, to slip into their usual beat. Safer too, because even this half-baked lie was something. If he pushed, he could end up with nothing.

He observed Brock, taking in the short hair he liked to tug, the back he’d protected more times than he could count, the muscles he could identify by scar count. To go back to what they had would just be painful. Tightening his jaw, Jack stared Brock in the eye and asked, “Why are you here?”

Brock opened his mouth, no doubt to make some two-bit joke, but he immediately shut up. A more serious expression crossed his face “What do you mean?”

“This. Us.” Jack paused. There wasn’t a real need for him to explain his feelings, Brock could see them clearly. “Where do we go from here?”

“What are you, a teenage girl?” Brock scoffed, unable to help himself.

Jack hardened his expression, shaking his head. “Brock, I’m serious. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Oh,” Brock exhaled softly. He was not a soft man. Jack didn’t know what to make of that. For a long moment, he looked around the room, looked down at the record player, and then back at Jack. “You knew what this was when we started.”

Jack couldn’t deny that. “Yeah.”

“You know how I am,” he continued, still staring at him. There was something intense about his expression and Jack couldn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly.

“I can’t…” Brock trailed off. Running a hand through his hair, he frowned. “I’m not built for that. Not interested in it either.”

Jack felt his heart sink. It was the response he’d expected, but it still hurt. He scuffed his shoe on the ground. “I know.”

“But.” Brock took a deep breath and looked away. “I can stay here. If that’s enough.”

“Huh?” Jack immediately looked up, eyes wide as tried to process it. 

“I can’t really give much else.” Brock shrugged, mistaking his surprise as a rejection. “I’ll leave.”

“NO!” Jack shouted, crossing the room quickly. He bent down so he was at eye level with Brock, so he could make out the miniscule details of his expression. “No, that’s—that’s fine. You mean it?”

“Would I fucking offer it otherwise?” Brock snapped back, rolling his eyes.

Living together: that was more than Jack had expected. More than he’d hoped for. Honestly, he didn’t need the meaningless titles of a relationship change or a promise of love. That wasn’t what Brock was. Jack liked that part of him, that no bullshit, honest part of him. “And when we go after Pym?”

Brock scowled, shoulders hunched as he conceded. “I’ll stay in your fucking pocket, okay? But only till we reach Pym. I need to punch the bastard.”

Shaking his head, he smiled. “That works for me.”

Brock looked at him, and then got up. “You’re a sappy bitch.” Climbing down from the table, he barked, “And where’s lunch?”

Jack laughed, standing straight. “Getting it.”

“After that, give me all the reports.” Brock clicked his teeth, irritated. “Pym can’t be that hard to find.”


	7. bigger is better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn’t end well for either of them, but Jack wanted to enjoy the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the epilogue! =D I left them on a fluffy, bittersweet thought. Thanks everyone for staying with me on this long journey, I think I’ve learned a lot through this series.

Jack’s back was stiff. As he slowly stirred, all he could think about was how sore his back felt. Actually, now that he was focusing on it, his neck ached too. And there was a heavy weight to his chest. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking away the weariness. In front of him, the TV played quietly. He was in the living room. No wonder he was so sore; sleeping on the couch wrecked him at this age.

On the table in front of him, several papers lay scattered. They hadn’t gotten any closer to finding Pym, despite brainstorming together. Maybe that heavy weight on his chest was disappointment. Even worse, Brock was snacking again in his sleep. Still groggy, Jack looked down for the little ken doll on his chest. Instead, he found a human-sized Brock.

For a long second, he stared, not comprehending the sight before him. He’d had this dream before. Only, the weight was heavier than he’d imagined, the body far warmer, and somehow he’d forgotten just how loudly Brock snored.

“Brock?” Jack whispered.

Brock didn’t store, still fast asleep. No wonder he was so uncomfortable—there was nothing right about the way Brock was curled on his front. The particles must have worn off overnight and part of him was amazed that Brock hadn’t woken up for it. Or that he hadn’t noticed the crushing sensation on his lungs. He’d always known his sense of self-preservation was terrible, but this was a whole ‘nother thing.

Loosely, he wrapped an arm around Brock and leaned down, breathing in his musky scent. The TV murmured in the background and Jack lazily closed his eyes. Brock was never this quiet and he wanted to soak it in, soak in the tranquility of this whole moment. It wouldn’t end well for them, he knew that much, but that didn’t mean it didn’t have to be enjoyable.

And if they could stay like this for a few more minutes, all the better.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [downsized](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964385) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)




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